Miracles and Dumb Luck
by ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: In the 1980 Winter Olympics, the American ice hockey team beat the Soviet team in one of the biggest upsets in sports history. Both America and Russia deal with the outcome with grace and dignity. ...yeah right.


Russia liked the Olympics. He liked watching all the countries compete, send forth their very best, and then beat them with _his _very best. It did the heart good to watch their smug little smiles melt away as their athletes came is second to his. Even better if that smug smile belonged to America.

He had a special soft spot for the Winter Olympics in particular. He had learned as a child that if he was going to have to suffer through a harsh winter every year, he should try to enjoy it, unless he really wanted to just be thoroughly miserable for a chunk of every year. So he learned how to play in the snow and how to play on the ice. And then he found that there were others who liked to play in the cold too, and after a while they started playing the games against each other for nice shiny medals and bragging rights. It was better then spending the winter curled up near the fire and dreaming about spring flowers.

It didn't matter that this Winter Olympics was at America's house. He was having a wonderful time already. Nikolay Zimyatov had been amazing at cross-country skiing, and his figure skaters did well as always, but it was the next ice hockey match he was really looking forward to. His team was the best in the entire world and everyone knew it. He hadn't left the Olympic games without an ice hockey gold medal in twenty years, and he had already crushed every other country he had played against so far that year. And who was he going up against next? America, who had a team of inexperienced amateurs. This wasn't going to be a hockey match; it was going to be another slaughter. Russia could hardly wait.

He already knew how this was going to go, even before the match began. His team would get the first point early on, get off to a comfortable start and keep scoring more and more as the game went on. America _might_ score once if he was lucky, certainly not more than once, and Russia would win yet again. The lack of competition would almost ruin the fun! Almost.

And then he would go see America and _congratulate_ him on a well played match, it was too bad that he had lost by a landslide, but surely he had tried his very best and it wasn't so shameful to come in second place behind the mighty Soviet Union, da? And then America would say, 'Shut up, _shut up_, shut your fucking mouth, you goddamn commie.' That part, in Russia's experience, always sweetened the victory. Seeing a furious and red-faced America made the celebratory vodka taste that much better.

He'd have to be careful not to take things too far, though. Everyone got so fussy whenever he and America got in a _real _fight at the Olympics. The fight they had at the 1976 Summer Games had been especially bad, and Russia's pipe was banned from all future Olympic games. That wasn't really fair that he got in so much trouble. America hit first, and Russia didn't know the meaning of turning the other cheek. If he was hit, he'd hit back. An eye for an eye, as they say. Or a shattered knee cap for a pair of bruised testicles, in that case. That was perfectly fair, in Russia's opinion. Kicking someone in their vital regions was _very_ unsportsmanlike, and it was pleasant to watch America hobble around on crutches for a week until the unnaturally fast healing process all nations possessed had mended the damage. But no, he would restrain himself this year to some good-natured mocking and bragging, just enough to infuriate America, but not enough to bring things to blows. He didn't want any more painful kicks to spoil the fun of winning.

The day of their match finally rolled around and Russia was in very high spirits indeed. His good mood was lifted even further when he accidentally bumped into America on the way to his seat at the match.

"Ah, comrade!" Russia greeted him happily, giving him a friendly slap on the back that was maybe a little harder than necessary. "Good day for hockey, da?"

"Well aren't you a merry ray of sunshine," America answered with a smile that showed too many teeth. "I wonder how happy you're gonna be after I kick your ass, huh?"

"I have often wondered where your confidence comes from. You have so very little to back it up!"

"And what the fuck does that mean? Are you trying to say my athletes are no good? 'Cause I'm kicking ass at speed skating right now. _Five_ gold medals, asshole."

"Oh, but I think I have a few more medals than that!"

"Because you're a goddamn cheat. And I'm pretty sure _Germany_ is beating you right now in the medal count. What now, huh?"

Ah, that did sour things a little bit. "But I have more gold medals than Germany," he rallied, trying to not let that unfortunate detail trouble him. "And I will have one more gold medal soon enough."

"Keep talking, asshole. You're going down today!"

"I look forward to watching you try, comrade!" Russia called happily over his shoulder as he walked off. "I hope you do not cry when you lose!"

The Baltics had saved a good seat for him, and he took his place between Lithuania and Estonia, watching the players skating out on to the rink so closely that he hardly noticed the countries on his left and right scooting away from him. Ah, he must have been crowding them a little. No matter!

The match soon began, and Russia's smile widened as his team scored the first goal. They were off to a good start again, just like always, just like he knew they would. But then America's team scored. Well, that wasn't a problem. A temporary tie was just a minor annoyance, and any moment- ah, there, another point for the USSR.

But then the US team scored again! This was starting to get annoying, even if the first period was only just ending. The last hockey match his team had played ended the first period 4-0, his lead. Tying with America now would be no great thing to overcome, but it was still bothersome. Russia felt a little better when his team scored another goal in the second quarter, but 3-2 wasn't where he wanted to be. He wanted to crush America! Pound him into the ice! Hopefully he could still muster up a landslide victory.

No such luck. America scored again. And then again! 4-3, America's lead, and ten minutes left in the game. Russia resisted the urge to chew on his fingernails. He _couldn't_ lose to America at hockey. This was one thing he had that America could never beat him at, _ever. _His team was attacking fiercer than ever, but time was running out and they hadn't scored yet!

Eleven seconds left, and America was still leading.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Russia sat perfectly still, grinding his teeth so hard his ears ached. He had lost. _How had he lost? _Fury boiled in his stomach for a second before settling into a flat, heavy disappointment. He didn't bother trying to tell himself that it was just a game, because it wasn't. Games like that were never 'just a game.'

The loud chant of 'U-S-A! U-S-A!' across the rink was driving into Russia's brain like a metal spike as he stood and headed for the exit, followed by the Baltics, intending to retreat to his hotel room and drink away his disappointment. He had brought plenty of vodka along to celebrate, but the victory vodka had already turned into 'cheer up, there's always next time' vodka. He didn't need to taste it to know that. And that kind of vodka didn't taste nearly as good as victory vodka.

He was out in the hallway, almost home free, when he saw the Baltics hastily stepping back out of the corner of his eye. He frowned in confusion, until he saw what they were looking at: America, strolling towards them purposefully with an earsplitting grin on his face. Damn. The Baltics were probably right to step out of the way.

"Good game, red!" America smirked, holding his hand out. "Looks like the better man won, huh?"

"Congratulations on your lucky victory," Russia returned, with a smile that was slightly more chilly than Antarctica. "I hope that bit of luck will not go to your head. It is no match for true skill, da?"

"Oh, I don't think _that_ was all luck. Maybe you could write off one play or two as luck, but the rest was pure American willpower."

America was still holding his hand out, apparently intending to shake, and Russia finally grasped it, squeezing as hard as he could.

"Where was the 'pure American willpower' in the past, I wonder?" Russia said, with a voice like razor blades in a jar of sugar. "Your talent in hockey has been somewhat...nonexistent."

"Maybe I'm just a late bloomer, huh? But once I bloom, I kick your ass at hockey."

America was returning the finger-breaking handshake with gusto; Russia's hand was starting to feel numb.

"I would not call winning by a single point 'kicking my ass,' but maybe you have low standards? I have a twenty year winning streak at Olympic hockey. One lost match is not such a disaster."

"Careful you don't choke on those sour grapes! And you _had_ a winning streak. I just broke that for you."

Rage flared up again, so suddenly that Russia yanked his hand back from America's without thinking. The younger's smile widened.

"Aw, did I hurt your widdle hand? I'm sowwy," he teased, and it took all of Russia's willpower to not punch America in the throat. "You know, the longer you're a commie, the lamer you get."

"Are you done with your childish gloating?" Russia asked as calmly as he could manage. "I don't have as much time to waste as you."

"Ha! You're one to talk about gloating. Yeah, you're _real_ humble whenever you win a game. And relax, you'll have plenty of time to mope and get shitfaced later. _I_ on the other hand have a victory party to get to. Not my team, though. They've got to stay in good shape so they can kick Finland's ass after this and finally net us our gold medal. And I'll tell you what; I'll let you look at it if you ask nicely. You can't touch it, but you can look."

"_I HAVE MANY GOLD MEDALS BACK AT HOME."_

"But not this one!"

"You have not even won it yet. You can't brag about a gold medal you have not won."

"Oh, I'm sure it won't be a problem," America said happily. "I mean, we already beat the so-called best team in the world. Finland shouldn't be too hard after that. Unless your team isn't that great after all. They _did _lose to a bunch of collegiates and amateurs! _American amateurs_!"

Russia didn't get a chance to respond; America had already turned back the way he came, singing "We Are the Champions" loudly over his shoulder.

Russia waited until America was out of sight before kicking the wall so hard his foot broke through the plaster.

Historical Notes:

The "Miracle on Ice" was a men's ice hockey game at the 1980 Winter Olympics at Lake Placid, New York on February 22. The Soviet hockey team was considered the best in the world, and had won the gold medal at every Olympics for the previous twenty years. The American team, on the other hand, was made up of amateur and collegiate players. The American victory over the Soviet team is considered one of the biggest upsets in sports history. They then went on to beat Finland and won gold, while the Soviet team beat Sweden and won silver.

The 'U-S-A' chant was popularized by this event, and it was a huge boost to American morale after all the hardships of the 70's.


End file.
